


five times llewyn didn't say i love you and the one time he did

by eloqit



Category: Inside Llewyn Davis (2013)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, i didnt just make them up, i simply just stared at their album cover too long, im really just out here writing llewyn davis fanfiction in 2020 huh, llewyn is j he is just gay, michael gorfein timlin let me give u a liddle kiss, mike do just be committing bridge go die tho, mike timlin is aaron tveit and i am right in that fancast and u will not tell me otherwise, mikes parents are the gorfeins and im also right in that, quarantine hitting dif, thats my emotional support depressed gay folk singer, the songs referenced in that one part are actually on their album, this is happy and gay until its not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23414956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloqit/pseuds/eloqit
Summary: The words are on the tip of Llewyn’s tongue- I love you, and he’s lost in Mike’s eyes, mind blank, and mouth opens to say it, I love you, and he means it, truly does, means it more and more the longer he gazes up at Mike, feels his heart stuttering in his chest, I love you, and then the thunder crashes outside, jolts Llewyn out of it, makes him jump apart from Mike in an instant.“Yeah- yeah, fine. I’ll stay.”
Relationships: Llewyn Davis/Mike Timlin
Comments: 9
Kudos: 15





	five times llewyn didn't say i love you and the one time he did

There's a million other things Llewyn could be doing, now that he's back on solid ground, on leave from the Merchant Marines, and seeing his family should probably be top of his list, but he thinks he'd rather drown- be stuck in that rust bucket for another week going more and more insane than do that, and he plans to put it off as long as he can, so he's here, instead, in a bar he's not even sure of the name of, tagged along with the dozens- hundreds, it feels like- of other marines all doing the exact same thing as him. He's two drinks too many, but it doesn't stop him from ordering another one, quite prepared to spend his entire check on shitty beer, and he gets handed his next one as soon as someone steps on stage, head turning towards the sound. Llewyn looks over, and he wishes he hadn't, because the guy is cute- he’s drunk enough to admit that to himself, and it pisses him off for some reason he can't truly explain, and he's just wasted enough to be loud, angry, and the guy hasn't even started singing yet before Llewyn's yelling, beer held tight in hand.

“Nice sweater!” he shouts, and it's nonsense, and he's just being loud, an asshole, making noise for the sake of it, but the guy practically ignores him, just rolls his eyes before he opens his mouth, starts singing, and it just makes Llewyn angrier, truly, because his voice is even prettier than his face, which Llewyn didn’t think was possible, and he almost knocks the barstool over as he leans forward, yells louder, tries to get some sort of reaction. "Why don't you go swim back to fucking Ireland!"

And the guy lifts his head, searches for the source of the yelling, and he’s trying not to laugh, smiling, in Llewyn’s direction, and he’s really cute, Llewyn processes, soft grin dazzling him for a moment, and Llewyn has to turn away, down the rest of his beer too fast, wince at it, before he's turned back, yelling too loud. "Yeah! Where's your pot of gold!"

The guy laughs, nods towards Llewyn at that one, and it flusters him, for a moment, and then whatever train he was on with the pot of gold thing is gone, and he can feel so many eyes on him, feels like he has to shout something, and the guy is grinning and it's cute and it's infuriating and Llewyn takes a too long pause before his next shout. "Get off the fucking stage- with your fucking sweater!"

And the guy finishes the song, does just that, and Llewyn watches as he stands up, and holy shit, he’s like six foot tall, and Llewyn can only make himself even smaller, in the hopes that the guy won’t see him, and as soon as the guy gets off the stage he makes a B-line directly towards Llewyn, and all the color drains from his face as he peers up at him with wide eyes, and Llewyn’s already taller than normal, sat high on a barstool so tall his feet don’t even touch the floor, and the guy still has a decent few inches on him, and Llewyn cannot believe, truly, that after wishing he was dead, stuck in the marines for what felt like a millenia, he's going to get the shit kicked out of him in an alley behind some shitty bar when he's only been on shore for hours. Great. 

“You really liked my set tonight, huh?” the guy asks, leans up against the bar, turns to the bartender to order a whiskey on the rocks, and he’s grinning, doesn’t look the least bit upset, but god, is he tall, and Llewyn can’t curb the panic rising in his chest.

"Shit, uh- I mean, it's just an open mic night, y'know, like-" he starts, rambling, can’t defend himself, he knows, and he’s wincing, curling in on himself already, and then the guy just starts laughing, and it’s so nice, is the first thing that Llewyn realizes, almost musical, but then he suddenly remembers his impending doom, and the observation gets tucked to the back of his mind.

The guy jostles Llewyn’s shoulder, and Llewyn winces, tenses up at it, but the hand just rests there, for a moment, gently, and there’s no malice behind it, and it erases all concern from his mind too quickly, and then the guy is speaking again, shaking Llewyn’s hand, introducing himself. "It's fine, man, it was funny. Too quiet out there anyways. I'm Mike."

"Oh- hey, Mike, I'm Llewyn," and he's taking the guy- Mike's- hand, and easy, drunken grin falls on his features as he looks up at him. "You were pretty good. By the way."

And they talk, for too long, until Mike’s drunk, too, until Llewyn’s even drunker, until Mike gets him rambling about his lost career in folk music- given up by his fathers push to join the Merchant Marines, be just like him, until Mike is telling him that that’s bullshit, and fuck his father, and that he’s going to introduce Llewyn to all his folk singer friends and that him and Mike are going to play something together, tomorrow, soon as the impending hangover clears.

“You got somewhere to stay the night?” Mike asks, as Llewyn tries shifting off the too tall barstool, and the question stops him in his tracks because no, he doesn’t, hasn’t had to question a where he’s going to sleep since he joined the Merchant Marines, and he knows that means he’s going to have to get back to his parents house, and he’d rather die, he thinks, than have his first interaction with his parents in months be him drunkenly stumbling into the house.

“Uh- no,” he mumbles, features frowning with it. “I’ll find somewhere, it’s fine,” he starts, tries to slide off the barstool again, and then he’s falling, winces before he hits the ground, but the impact never comes, and eyes open to see Mike, concerned, looking down at him, hands held tight around Llewyn’s arms so he doesn’t crash to the ground, and he’s saying something, asking if he’s okay, probably, but the only thing Llewyn can process is how the cheap, shitty lighting of the bar frames Mike, makes him look like some sort of angel.

He could say it, he thinks, _I love you_ , because yeah, the guy is a completely stranger, but Llewyn’s drunk enough to say stupid shit, something as stupid as _I love you_ , and he can’t remember the last time someone was this nice to him, paid him this much attention, and that on top of the absurd amount he drank tonight- he’s gonna be so sick tomorrow, he knows- is clouding his judgement, just enough to say it, _I love you_ , but before he can even think about trying to get the words out Mike is pulling him back to his feet, slinging an arm around his shoulder, steadying him. 

“Hey- come crash at mine for the night, yeah? So I know you’re safe? I mean- how’re we supposed to play together if you’re face down on the bottom of the subway tracks, or something?” Mike asks, and Llewyn processes it this time, processes the humor in his voice, not so much the genuine concern underneath it, and he can only nod in response, wrap his arm around Mike’s back, murmur out a small, “Yeah- you’re right. Good idea.”

* * *

“You can’t leave now, Llewyn, christ- it’s fucking pouring,” Mike suddenly says, exasperated, while Llewyn packs his guitar back into his bag, tries to think of the shortest way to get to the train station from Mike’s apartment, sit somewhere dry, try to find a place to sleep for the night. He doesn’t mind sleeping on park benches, can rest anywhere he sits down, truly, and it’s like the only real thing his stint in the Merchant Marines taught him was how to fall asleep anywhere- he’s so used to being packed into a sardine can, damp, and dizzy with the neverending rocking of the ship, that sleeping on a solid bench, unmoving, uncramped, with breathable air feels like staying at the Ritz Carlton. He can’t sleep in this rain, though, he knows, needs to find somewhere sheltered, needs to hide somewhere like the subway station, or tuck himself into the back of a train, sleep there until the rain lets up.

“Llewyn,” Mike starts again, after a moment of being ignored, and Llewyn finally gets his guitar packed, lifts his gaze to meet Mike’s, and as soon as his eyes meet Mike’s he knows he’s going to cave, glances downwards once more instead. 

“Mike, it’s fine- I’m just gonna catch a train back to my parents’ or something,” he starts, and it’s a lie and Mike knows it, because when has he ever willingly stayed with his parents, and Mike cuts him off with a huff, and concern holds in his tone as he tries again.

“Jesus, Llewyn- you don’t even know where you’re gonna fucking stay,” and Llewyn is suddenly startled by a hand on his arm, freezes halfway through pulling his bag over his shoulders to glance upwards, meet Mike’s gaze, proper, this time. “It’s fucking pouring,” he states, again, now that Llewyn is a captive audience, as if he doesn’t know, can’t hear the crash of the thunder echoing through the walls of Mike’s apartment, can’t see the torrential downpour from outside the living room window. “If you try and go out there you’re gonna drown.”

Llewyn wants to tell him he’s just being dramatic, that he’ll be fine, but another crash of thunder startles him, makes him wince as light flashes through Mike’s apartment, illuminates Mike’s features, for a moment.

“Don’t get washed back out to sea before you have to, sailor,” Mike says, gently, gives him a small smile, and Llewyn’s done for, any argument in his head completely crumbled, and Mike knows it as soon as the tinest smile quirks up the corners of Llewyn’s lips. “Stay with me.”

The words are on the tip of Llewyn’s tongue- _I love you_ , and he’s lost in Mike’s eyes, mind blank, and mouth opens to say it, _I love you_ , and he means it, truly does, means it more and more the longer he gazes up at Mike, feels his heart stuttering in his chest, _I love you_ , and then the thunder crashes outside, jolts Llewyn out of it, makes him jump apart from Mike in an instant. 

“Yeah- yeah, fine. I’ll stay.”

* * *

He needs to go back to the Merchant Marines. It’s been too long, he knows, and he keeps getting letters about it, tends to just ignore them, but he’s holding a stack of them in one hand, head in the other when Mike catches him, frowns, leans against the kitchen counter next to him.

“I gotta go back, Mikey,” he murmurs, and the nickname is newfound, but it comes out easy as anything, like he’d been saying it for years, and it’s almost as easy as Mike’s equally newfound nickname for him is on his ears. 

“No you don’t, Wyn,” he says softly, takes the letters from Llewyn easily, slides them to the other side of the counter. Llewyn doesn’t want to leave and Mike knows it, and he never thought he’d ever find a reason to stay ashore, a real reason to not want to go back, but he’s found it, and he’ll tell Mike over and over that it’s just the music, that’s the reason, but it’s him, fucking Mike Timlin, truly, and all the life and warmth and friendship that comes with him, and the music is just like an added bonus. 

“I can’t just go on leave and never fucking come back,” he tries, again, but downturned features are almost melted by Mike’s soft ones, and all he can think about is how disappointed his father is going to be in him.

“Yeah, you can,” Mike replies, and then he laughs. “It’s not like they’re gonna fucking track you down for not coming back. You don’t have to go. Stay.”

And Llewyn just peers up at him, sighs, because he knows he’s going to give in, knows he wouldn’t care if they were going to track him down, pluck him from Mike’s apartment and drag him kicking and screaming back onto that sardine can, because nothing really else matters to him besides singing with Mike, besides the album they’d been talking about recording, besides the gigs at the gaslight where the whole cafe is blotted out and it’s just them, gazing at each other, singing each line and playing each chord to each other like the only things that exist in the world are them, their guitars, and that shitty stage.

“I guess you’d be pretty shit as a solo act,” Llewyn finally jokes, resigned, and Mike’s grin only brightens, and it’s infectious, and Llewyn can only mirror it, laugh softly.

“Yeah, see? Stay- Stay and make music with me.”

And Llewyn knows he can’t, knows he’s not drunk, knows it’s not super late, knows he won’t be able to come up with an excuse to get him out of this one, but he can’t help himself from leaning upwards, pressing the softest of kisses to Mike’s lips, and Mike freezes, for a moment, and Llewyn almost bails, and he’s convincing himself that it’s a good thing that he’s fucked everything up, that now he can go back to the Merchant Marines without protest, before Mike’s hands find themselves entwined through Llewyn’s curls, and he’s kissing Llewyn back, and Llewyn is melting into him, hands holding loosely on either of Mike’s arms, pushed onto his tip toes to reach Mike.

“Is that a yes?” Mike finally questions, breaks the silence, and Llewyn can only laugh, let his head thunk against Mike’s shoulder, and Mike’s fingers are playing with his hair now, gently running through the curls.

Head lifts to meet Mike’s gaze, once more, and he’s going to say it this time, he’s sure, and Mike is looking at him expectantly, like he’s waiting for it, _I love you_ , _I love you_ , _I love you_ , and he goes to say it, but then nerves suddenly get the better of him, and he casts his gaze down, for a moment, and whatever spell he was put under by Mike’s warm gaze is broken, and he wants to kick himself as he laughs out a soft “Yes, it’s a yes,” as Mike’s fingers leave Llewyn’s hair, as they pull apart, as they never talk about the kiss again.

* * *

The album party is finished, last guests left some thirty minutes ago, and the clock reads some time past two thirty am, and they should really go to sleep, but they can’t stop grinning at each other, grins that hadn’t left their features since Mike’s parents came over to help set up for the party. Their album was done, finished, finally, and it’s like neither of them could be any more prouder of it, and it’s like all the nights sat up, riffing off each other, stayed up past four am have all finally culminated in something, and it’s everything they wanted it to be, and it’s perfect.

They’re dancing, now, B side of their record almost halfway run through for the probably hundredth time that night, and they’re doing some drunken version of a waltz, one of Mike’s arms slung over Llewyn’s shoulder, and one of Llewyn’s arms wrapped tight around Mike’s waist, and their other hands are held out to the side, fingers entwined. They’re so drunk they’re barely moving, just swaying, gently, to the music, and they keep stumbling, only makes them hold each other tighter, laugh, try to keep each other upright. 

Llewyn’s head is pressed against Mike’s chest, and he’s singing along to Careless Love as it plays softly in the background, and it gets to Mike’s part, and he lifts his head to meet Mike’s gaze, drunken grin bright on his features as he starts, in the most absurd mock-Mike voice, to sing, and Mike almost instantly bursts out laughing, shoves Llewyn oh so gently, as not to send them both toppling over. “Shut up, you idiot!”

They’re drunk, wasted out of their minds, so it’s fine, so Llewyn can lean up, laughing, pushed up on his tip toes to press a soft kiss to Mike’s lips, so Mike can lean down, kiss Llewyn back with a passion, because, even if they remember this tomorrow, which they probably won’t, they were just drunk, just high off the excitement of releasing their first album, just celebrating a bit too hard.

They stumble backwards until Mike falls back onto the couch, until Llewyn tumbles easily into his lap, kiss only breaking so they can laugh, softly, noses bumping against each other, and Llewyn is faintly aware of the songs rolling over, Careless Love fading out so K.C Moan can start.

Mike leans up, kisses Llewyn sweetly, too tender to be some heated makeout session, and Llewyn is taller than Mike like this, and it’s a strange shift, Llewyn having to lean down for once, instead of straining upwards. Their hands are still entwined, and Mike presses Llewyn’s hand against his waist as Mike’s other arm goes to wrap around the other side of him, pull him in closer by the small of his back, and Llewyn’s own free hand finds a hold on Mike’s shoulder, steadies himself on it as he presses impossibly closer to Mike, kisses him so softly.

He pulls away, for a moment, to gaze down at Mike, and eyes are just filled with adoration, and Mike’s looking back up at him just the same way, and Llewyn can’t even hear whatever song is playing anymore because all he can hear is the sound of blood rushing in his ears as he beams down at Mike.

He could say it, now- _I love you_ , he could utter it and Mike probably wouldn’t even remember, hell, Llewyn probably wouldn’t even remember, a soft _I love you_ murmured to fill the silence, to accompany the way he’s staring down at Mike like he’s the stars, and the sun, and all the planets too, like he’s the whole universe, like he really, truly, _loves_ him.

Llewyn opens his mouth to say it, and then the record spins off, makes a loud staticy noise as it does so, startles the both of them, makes them both burst out laughing, after a moment, after the look of wide-eyed shock gets wiped from both of their expressions. 

“You gonna restart the record?” Mike asks, tone warm, after a moment, and Llewyn just nods, stands up with an immense amount of help from Mike, stumbles towards the record player.

* * *

They’re playing The Gaslight, and it feels like every time they play is the first, no matter how many times they actually have, and they’re always so excited, so jittery, bright grins always unwavering as they set up their guitars on stage, only one mic between them, chairs pushed so close their knees are permanently pressed together, but neither one of them is complaining, and it’s grounding, almost, as the stage lights disorient.

Mike introduces them- Mike always introduces them, after Llewyn’s one time blunder, his failed joke met with dead silence, but Llewyn doesn’t mind, let’s him fiddle with his guitar for an extra moment, lift his gaze every so often to beam up at Mike as he murmurs excitedly into the microphone.

Every time they gig together they get lost in it, truly, like they’re the only people in the world, like all that matters is each other, and they’re gazing at each other, grins overwhelming their features as they both lean closer, closer, until the only thing between them is the microphone, as they’re so close knees touching turns to thighs pressed together, as they look at each other with such adoration as they sing, and they’re singing to each other, not to the crowd, Mike’s saccharine voice so truly genuine as he sings out life ain’t worth living without the one you love, grins at Llewyn with it, and Llewyn can only grin back, reply with an equally genuine fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well.

And when they get to the end of the song they’re hovering there, frozen in a moment in time, and the crowd is cheering, but Llewyn can’t hear it, can only hear the way his heart pounds in his chest as he looks up at Mike, watches the way the hazy, shitty cafe lighting illuminates behind him, frames his head like a soft halo, ethereal, and the words are there, caught in Llewyn’s throat, _I love you_ , it’s right there, on the tip of his tongue, and they’re so close Llewyn could whisper it, _I love you_ , and Mike could still hear it over the crowd, he’s sure, and he opens his mouth, finally, goes to say it, _I love you_ , forces a soft noise from his throat, and then Mike turns back towards the microphone, and the moment is shattered, and Llewyn comes crashing down to earth much too hard, and Mike is saying something, thanking Pappi, probably, for letting them play, but Llewyn can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears.

* * *

Mike’s been dead for a month now. It leaves him empty, makes it feel like his chest is hollow, like he’s finally going to collapse and cave in on himself. He hasn’t cried, yet- just feels numb.

He’s been staying at the Gorfeins since the night he found out- can’t go back to Mike’s apartment again, can’t be there when he knows Mike is never coming back, and it feels like all the days have blurred together, now, since Mike left to go get some groceries, since Llewyn shouted after him not to come back unless he had fresh coffee with him, since Mike laughed as he walked out the door, since Llewyn got the call to tell him that Mike had thrown himself off the George Washington Bridge.

But he’s in the Gorfeins apartment, alone, with no one but their cat, the one he can never remember the name of, that won’t leave him alone, won’t stop following him, weaving between his legs until he leans down, scratches at the top of it’s head weakly. It follows him until he slumps down into a chair in the living room, picks up his guitar from where it lay, leaned against the arm of the chair, and stares at it, for a long moment, in silence.

He hasn’t played since Mike’s death- hasn’t even tried, truly, because he knows it won’t be the same, won’t sound right, and he doesn’t want to feel like somethings missing, because something is missing, but he doesn’t want to process it further, so he just plucks at strings, empty, no melody to it, rests his temple against the side of the fretboard as gaze lifts, finds his and Mike’s album from where it lies on the table, next to the record player, and he just stares, feels tears welling up the longer he frowns at Mike’s picture on the cover, remembers the day they took the picture perfectly, remembers how excited they both were, how Mike picked out the outfits because Llewyn’s never known how to dress, remembers how Mike had to sit down on a stool next to Llewyn to get in the frame evenly, too tall, remembers how they both couldn’t stop laughing. It feels like yesterday and it feels like a millenia ago all at once.

He tries, again, to play something, force something out of his guitar, strums a G chord, gently, opens his mouth, if I had wings, but no sound comes out, and he just sits there, frozen, for a moment, before tears roll down his cheeks and plunk onto his guitar, and he curls in on himself, arms wrapped around his guitar as he cries, finally, as gaze stays fixed on the picture of Mike, so happy, so lively. Smiling so genuinely.

“I love you,” he chokes out, hushed, between the sobs hitting him full force, now, wracking his small frame, and he does, he loves him, and makes it hurt so much more, and Llewyn thinks maybe, just maybe, if he wasn’t such a coward, if he could’ve said it while Mike was alive, maybe, he would still be here.

**Author's Note:**

> i have absolutely no idea if anyone will read this mess of a fic i literally. have not written a fanfic in Years but i hope the 3 people invested in ild still enough to read this like it and if u are not coming from twitter then u should follow me @poelesbian :^) thank u for reading !!


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